


He'll Never Remember Who You Are

by AngelWithAStory



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Pre Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:00:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelWithAStory/pseuds/AngelWithAStory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John's hospitalized because his PTSD was triggered by Moriarty, Sherlock refuses to leave his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Sherlockprobz on Twitter who wanted this done. Sorry its so short, i'm meant to be doing homework right now, so I'll probably re-do it properly when I'm done.

 

"He'll never remember you Sherlock. I hope you know that." Mycroft Holmes stated, leaning on his umbrella slightly. His eyes flickered from a man unconscious in a hospital bed to the man he called Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.  

"I know. But I can't leave him. I did this to John, and I have to help him." Sherlock replied, slouching in a chair pulled up right beside the hospital bed. 

"It wasn't your fault Sherlock. You couldn't have known Moriarty would trigger his Post Traumatic Stresd Disorder again. There was no way you could have seen this coming." Mycroft reassured his brother, stepping over. Sherlock's dark curls hid his eyes from Mycroft's line of vision. 

"He didn't have to come with me. His stupid instincts told him to help me on my cases, and now look where he is." Sherlock whispered, something suspiciously like a tear falling to the ground. Mycroft's hard heart cracked at his brothers dejected tone and broken tone. 

"We'll get him all the help we can Sherlock, but there's no guarantee he'll remember you." Mycroft said. He fought a silent battle in his mind. 

"Anything to help John." Sherlock agreed, reaching out a slender hand to grasp John's motionless fist. The heart rate monitor beeped rhythmically. It calmed Sherlock. Hearing the stable beat. Each beat told him John was still alive and still with him. Even if John had no idea who he was.  


	2. Who Are You? You're Looking Like A Stranger.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's awake, but he still doesn't remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of the ridiculous amount of responce the 230-something words got from the previous chapter, I've decide to continue it. I wasn't going to but....  
> Brief mention of drugs, but thats about it.   
> Anyway, enjoy:

"Where am I?" John muttered, opening his eyes. The room around him was unfamiliar and the man watching him was no exception. "Who are you?" he asked, eyes growing wide.   
"You really don't remember me, do you?" Sherlock said, all his spirits plummeting in half a second.   
"I'm sorry, but really, who are you?" John repeated, calculating how many seconds it would take to push the emergency button.   
"The name's Sherlock Holmes. After you were shot in the shoulder in Afghanistan, we became roommates in 221B Baker Street." Sherlock explained, looking heartily dejected.   
"I don't remember anything properly After being shot. I think I remember an apartment. I definably remember shooting someone through a window. I can't remember much." John said, clutching his head with the force it took to pull up these vague and elusive memories. Sherlock's heart sank to beneath the floor. He didn't let his face show it though. Sherlock Holmes was a good actor and he wasn't going to betray his thoughts and feelings to the one man who meant so much.   
"You shot a cabbie through a window. The first day we met. You were helping me with a case and I had a lead. You followed me and when you saw I was in trouble..." Sherlock began. His voice failed him and he had to swallow hard. "You saved me John. More than once." He finished, willing himself not to say what he really wanted to. About how John was his saviour, and the only reason he wasnt constantly hooked on cocaine to keep his mind stimulated. John meant more than everything to him, but he would save those thoughts for when it mattered. No was not the time.   
"I... Saved you?" John repeated hesitantly, resting the palm of his hand on his forehead to steady his thoughts.   
"You did John. You need your rest." Sherlock decided, getting up and swinging his trench coat over his slender shoulders. He tied his classic grey scarf around his elegent neck and headed out the door, hand lingering for a moment more than necessary on the door handle. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. John couldn't remember him, at all. It killed him inside, knowing that. But he had to stay strong and help John. He had to. 


	3. John's Therepy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John pays a visit to the woman who counseled him through his toughest time. Maybe she can help....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, why do so many people like this fanfic?!!?!? I wrote it while trying to get out of homework!! update only added because someone asked nicely :P.
> 
> let that be a lesson.

“So John? Do you remember anymore since our last appointment?” the therapist asked, leaning forwards in her chair, pen and paper poised beneath her hands. John continued to stare out of the large windows which occupied a wall. His thoughts raced but somehow managed to be dragged back to the man who had visited him in hospital everyday and called himself Sherlock Holmes. Every time John had woken up, Sherlock was there. Sometimes Sherlock brought objects. An unframed picture which he claimed was John’s favourite; a picture of the two of them outside a country pub; printed pages of a blog that Sherlock explained was John’s. Each of these things had intense sentimental value to Sherlock, but meant absolutely nothing to John. The only thing that had any value of any kind was the picture, purely because it managed to spark some memories. Blurry memories of a dog (no, a _daemon_ dog) and thick fog swirling around his ankles, and finally, a far off explosion and bright light. Nothing to do with Sherlock. Nout. Nada.

“A little. I remember a swimming pool and another man. No matter how hard I try, I can’t tell who that man _is_. He must have been important, because I can hear his voice, it’s distant but I can.” John confessed, his hand closing around the arm of the plush chair he sank into. The therapist immediately jotted down some disjointed and abbreviated words to remind herself of what he’d told her. Somehow this irritated John and he clenched his jaw as the scratching stopped.

“You said the man spoke. What did he say?” The therapist asked in her calm, breathy voice which made John unclench his jaw and cast his mind back. The woman’s eyes passed over John’s face, taking in the concentration etched into his premature wrinkles.

“I can only remember one word. Just that. At the swimming pool, his voice saying just one word.” John admitted, scrunching up his eyes to delve deeper into his tampered memories.

“But what was that word?” The therapist persisted, the biro in her hand, ready to jot down his next words.

“ _John_.” He said, opening his eyes and sighing as if he was disappointed with himself for not being able to remember any more. "He says John."

The woman stopped just before the nib of the ball-point pen reached the paper and relaxed. She looked as John gazed out the window, submersing himself in all the broken images flashing before his eyes. She knew who’s voice that was – John had told her all about the Pool ‘incident’ with a certain Moriarty when he came back to her after Sherlock faked his death. She really wanted to tell him that it was Sherlock’s voice, but she didn’t. She told herself that telling John would imply memories and that was counter-productive. She convinced herself that John knowing wasn’t important. She knew she was lying to herself.


	4. The Happy Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sort of going on a spree to try and finish the unfinished fics I have on here before GCSE's become too much so I'm sory for the very late update but here it is!

_Running. John was running. The gun in his hand became slippery as his palm sweated. He didn’t know where he was running, or what he was running from. Or too. All he knew was he had to get there. That building. He had to. A figure loomed out of the darkness. High above his head. He tried to call out to them, but his voice wasn’t working.  The figure said something. Something that sounded scarily close to ‘goodbye, John’. John shouted a name. But he didn’t make a sound. The figure’s arms spread out each side of him. He started falling. Slowly. Like it was an action replay. The seconds dragged on for hours._

_“NO!”_

John’s eyes snapped open and he stared at the ceiling for a moment. The realisation hit him like a tonne of bricks. He swung himself out of bed, pulled on a jumper over his head and grabbed his keys. The door hadn’t even closed by the time he was running down the stairs. Old, faulty lights flickered above his head. The old apartment building had been built decades ago and stank, but the rent was cheap and John needed a place to stay after being released from the hospital. Sherlock had offered the spare room and Baker Street, but if you can’t remember a person and you don’t know if you could actually trust them, would you want to share a room with them?

Outside, the street was almost deserted. A few people were walking quickly into their homes for fear of unsavoury characters. A woman stood on the corner, looking around nervously. John shivered slightly in the cold, London air. The busier street was further up. He walked towards the bright lights of London nights and stretched his arm out. A taxi pulled over, parking obediently in front of John. He pulled open the backseat door and slid in.

“Baker Street. 221b, Baker Street.” He instructed, leaning back in his seat.

“Isn’t that where the crackpot detective lives?” The cabbie inquired, pulling away from the curb.

“Yeah.” John replied shortly, looking out the window.

“He’s a genius, he is. ‘M always reading about him in the papers. Bloody genius.” The cabbie said in his thick cockney accent. John stayed silent, willing the cab to go faster. Eventually, the taxi rounded a corner and slowed down outside. Pulling a note out his pocket, John opened the door and held out the £20.

“Keep it.” He instructed, shutting the door behind him forcefully. Without looking back, John walked up to the black, shiny door of 221B and rapped his knuckles. Mrs Hudson opened the door timidly after a minute, her old nightdress and gown on.

“John?” She asked quietly.

“I need to see Sherlock.” He stated. Mrs Hudson stepped back and opened the door wider, looking out nervously.

“He’s upstairs.” She told him, re-locking the door.

“Thanks.” He said, bounding up the stairs two at a time. He pushed open the door to the apartment, some of his confidence slipping. Sherlock was in his chair, legs on the cushion and sitting on the back. His fingers were pressed to his lips like he usually did when he was deep in thought. His eyes flickered up as the door opened and his jaw dropped very slightly.

“John...” He started, lifting himself out of the seat. John strode across the room, cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands. He quickly pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. Taken back, Sherlock’s eyes widened but he recovered and wrapped his arms around John, sinking into the interaction. He pulled away, looking at John curiously. John locked eyes with the detective, breathing deeply as his heart accelerated.

“I remember.” John whispered, his voice holding a lot of weight.

“You remember?” Sherlock repeated, disbelief written all over his face.

“I remember.” John promised, laying his head on Sherlock’s chest.

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“I love you.” Sherlock admitted, tightening his grip on John, never wanting to let go.

“I love you too.” John replied, listening to the thud of Sherlock’s heart.

“Are you going to stay?” There was a note of sorrow in Sherlock’s voice which made John’s heart tighten in regret.

“Try and stop me.” He challenged, holding onto Sherlock tightly.


End file.
